She was helping my unknown friend to support me across the road. By some subtle means her nearness seemed to brace and stimulate my faculties.
"I fear we shall not catch the 5.28, ma'am," I said.
"What does it matter?" The tone of her voice seemed to give me strength and capacity.
A few yards away, down a side street, was the house of a doctor. It seemed but a very little while before I was in a cosy, well-lighted room, with a fire burning cheerfully, and a tall, genial individual with a red head and a Scotch accent was talking to me and holding me by the arm.
"Pray sit down, madam," I heard him say in his pleasant brogue. "I hope you are none the worse for your accident?"
"Not at all, t'ank you," replied my companion in a cordial tone; and then the man who had taken charge of me was heard to say to a colleague who had followed us into the house, "Perhaps the Doctor will allow you to use his telephone, Mr. Johnson. Ring up the Superintendent and then go and see what Inspector Mottrom is doing."
The Doctor gave me a bottle to sniff, and then for the first time I realised that I had an intolerable stinging in the arm. I glanced at it and saw that the sleeve of my coat was soaked with blood.
"If you will come into the surgery," said the Doctor, following the direction of my glance, "we will have a look at it. A breakage of glass, apparently."
"Yes," said my friend in need, who was evidently a Scotland Yard inspector, answering for me promptly, "the cab was pretty well smashed up." Then he added in an undertone for my private ear, "Don't mention the shots, sir. I am going to telephone to the railway people to arrange for a special train as soon as you are ready to go on. I think it will be safer, and two of our inspectors will accompany the train."
"Thank you very much indeed," I said, gratefully.